A Lonely Heart
by kamikaze-djali
Summary: Fleur-de-Lys ended the engagement to her cousin Phoebus, yet still yearns for love. When she hears of a young man seeking her father's council, she knows he's the one that will sweep her off her feet. Meanwhile, Quasimodo continues to adapt to life outside Notre Dames' bell-towers. A novella intended to seed frustration. :) Story 8 / 11 if reading "in order for best effect."
1. January 22, 1482

Tuesday, January 22nd  


Captain Phoebus drew a deep breath. The mansion was as grand as ever. Even while dormant under a dusting of snow, the gardens accented the beauty of the tall, intimidating walls. He looked to the steps and released the air he'd been holding. This wouldn't be easy. Looking to the letter in his hand, he remembered why he was here.

Composing himself for a moment, he ascended the steps. A servant swiftly guided him through the large, ornate doors, broad halls and into the brightly-lit office of Charles de Gondelaurier.

"Dearest uncle, I've come asking for a favor."

"Captain Phoebus, nephew. I've only been in Paris three days. First, you break my daughters heart. Now you have the nerve to ask for help?"

"Uncle, it is a matter of honour. Those homes, and this place, were left unburned. Your staff were permitted evacuation when the first fires were lit. All while you and your daughter remained miles from Paris, safe in your summer home."

"I understand, Phoebus. Fleur is still upset. She had her heart set on marrying you."

"I'm but a soldier. We last met when she was three years old. What does she know of the life I lead?" Phoebus shook his head. "Fleur-de-Lys' heart has grander dreams than I may ever provide her. She is also a child. I'm ten years her elder!"

"She will be seventeen on October 5th." Monsieur de Gondelaurier frowned. "Fleur should be married by now, or engaged."

"If you remember, uncle, it is your daughter that broke our engagement, not I."

"Touché. She was angry when you were dishonorably discharged." Charles drew his finger to lips. "Are you not engaged to another?"

"My position has also been restored, uncle. " Phoebus nodded. "Esmeralda and I are truly happy."

"What is it that you ask of me, if not to beg for my daughters' hand?"

"I've a friend who requires guidance in managing a fief." Phoebus pulled the letter from his pocket. "The property is newly inherited, and he has limited knowledge. I was hoping that you would hold to your word to provide help, should I ever require it."

Monsieur de Gondelaurier unrolled the letter, thinking aloud as he scanned the contents.

"How did you come to know the Frollos?" Charles tapped the paper with his fingers, shaking his head. "This fief, it is small and worth very little. Dare I even ask why you bring this trifle to my attention?"

"My friend..." Phoebus stumbled on his words. "He is educated, yet knows little of the world. Were he to manage this alone, it would be lost."

"Claude Frollo never married. Jehan the scoundrel is back, then? Cut ties before he seduces Semerella and steals everything you care about. He robbed my wife, you know. He walked through these halls as if he owned the place, while his brother was in this very office. You'd be a fool to think that I'd waste valuable time helping a useless, thieving..." He continued to read the paper. His words faded into mumbling.

Phoebus stood patiently, his hands at his sides. Charles' lips suddenly ceased movement. His eyes grew wide, his lips sealed. Phoebus watched as his uncle's eyes re-read the page. He held out the paper, tapping the name on the bottom of the page.

"This, who it this?"

"My friend." Phoebus stated flatly.

"The boy has outlasted his Master." Charles looked at the page again, nodding approvingly. "Good for him. Most unfortunate that he's saddled with two bad names." Charles mumbled.

Phoebus shifted nervously at the sound of excited footsteps on the other side of the door. The two men exchanged glances as there was a scuffle and surprised yelp, followed by a scolding female voice. Charles shook his head and sighed.

"Can the man read?" Charles asked sharply.

"Most certainly." Phoebus nodded. "I know it's much to ask, uncle. Any counsel you provide would be greatly appreciated, even an afternoon would help him greatly. Without help, I fear he's doomed to fail."

"Fine, fine." Charles rolled the paper, then pointed it at Phoebus. "One meeting. If this Quasimodo fellow is able to learn, I'll teach him what he needs to know."

"Your kindness is much appreciated, uncle."

"Spare the formality, Phoebus. We both know there is another reason for your request."

Phoebus remained still for a moment. His eyes shifted out the window, toward Notre Dame.

"He saved Esmeraldas' life, as well as mine." Phoebus' eyes remained fixed on Notre Dame, on the north bell-tower. "Possibly hundreds of others, as well. He's asked for nothing in return. He's a good man, uncle."

"I see. I will help your friend." Monsieur de Gondelaurier rolled and re-rolled the paper in his hands, before placing it in his pocket. "Where do I find him, this 'Quasimodo Frollo'?"

"He would likely prefer that you meet him in Notre Dame, after mass. Your help is much appreciated, uncle." Phoebus bowed slightly. "I should advise you that while Quasimodo is clever, he's also rather..."

"He's a homely fellow." Charles laughed. "I remember him. He was crowned at the Festival of Fools, the poor bastard."

Phoebus nodded, his lips sealed tight.

"Anything for my favourite nephew." Charles straightened his sleeves. "I assume you have important duties to attend. I shall see you tomorrow morning, in Notre Dame."

Phoebus stepped out, quickly making his way to the stairs and out of the mansion.

Charles stood alone at the entrance to his office. The Frollo fief was small. His father had once helped his friend, Henri Frollo, manage the property. That was over thirty years ago, when his own parents were alive. When he was a child. Before the black death had swept the land.

Charles wandered aimlessly through the halls, his mind racing. He imagined the frightened eyes of the bell-ringer, confusion wrought into his twisted face. Phoebus would never lie to him, Phoebus had never lied to him. He would keep to his word, he would meet with the bell-ringer and attempt to teach him. The Festival of Fools was chaotic, surely not a suitable environment to judge one's character. Charles closed his eyes, imagining Quasimodo's face and stunned expression.

"What have I agreed to?" Charles mumbled.

As the words left his lips, he felt another collide with him. He placed his hand on his chest before looking to the scribe that stood before him, in shock. The young man bore a large box of parchment and supplies. Quills and papers littered the floor.

"Watch where you're going, Pierre."

"Of course, Monsieur de Gondelaurier."

Pierre grasped at the quills and pages. He hastily placed them atop the crate.

"Get those to my office. I shall return by afternoon."

"Yes, Monsieur de Gondelaurier."

Both men deserted the hall.

* * *

A large white feather rested on the floor, it's brightness nearly glowing upon the grey marble floor. Fleur-de-Lys stooped down, lifting the perfect white feather into her hands. She ran her fingers along the vanes, appreciating the delicate softness. Suddenly, another object caught her eye.

A letter lay on the floor. She unrolled the parchment to see scratchy writing. Scanning the letter, Fleur struggle to read the words. The word "fief" stood out to her.

Fleur struggled to read the letter, her ability to interpret letters strained. Footsteps echoed in the hall. She rolled the letter, placing it back on the floor. Quietly, she stepped away, in thought. She held the angel feather in her hands. It was a sign, a gift that could only come from heaven. Truly, there was no other way for such a miracle.

Fleur placed the feather in her bosom and began to dance down the hall. She twirled her skirts with each step, her toes lightly sweeping over the floor. As she danced she curtseyed to each servant, as if meeting them at a royal ball.

Once in her quarters, Fleur closed the door behind her. She held the feather to her heart, the softness of it brushing over her breast. She looked up to the painted ceiling of her room, then closed her eyes. A smile forced its way across her face, tears forming in her eyes.

"Thank you for sending him to me, dear Angel. Whomever he is."


	2. January 23, 1482

Wednesday, January 23rd

Morning mass had concluded. Charles de Gondelaurier stood inside the Portal of the Last Judgement, awaiting the arrival of his nephew and the bell-ringer. With little else to occupy him, he examined the repair of the great door. The colours did not match, yet by candlelight it was difficult to distinguish old wood from new. He turned at the sound of Phoebus' boots.

"Your friend, the bell-ringer, he's somewhere in this place?"

"He'll be along shortly. We'd best meet him in a less frequented area."

"What name does he go by, anyhow?" Charles questioned.

"Use his given name. It doesn't seem to matter how you pronounce it." Phoebus scanned the crowds. "Calling him 'Frollo' tends to bother him."

"Understandable."

Charles looked through the nave. Notre Dame was nearly empty, with only a few citizens milling about in small groups. The whispering voices were as gentle as the flickering candles. Charles sighed as he watched the bell-ringer from across the nave. He methodically tilted every second candelabra, snuffing the candles. His prominent limp and awkward movements caused Charles to look away.

Phoebus and Charles waited under the Madonna and Child. Phoebus gestured toward the other side of the nave, where Quasimodo continued working.

"Before you meet Quasimodo, you should know that he only hears the bells. He won't admit it, however."

"Then how will I even speak with him?" Charles kept his eyes on the bell-ringer, following his every awkward movement. He shook his head. "Phoebus, I know you mean well. I know you want to help your friend. It seems he's only problem after problem. How will I even begin to educate someone so broken."

"Face him when you speak. If there is any doubt, write it out for him." Phoebus shrugged. "I forget myself, occasionally. Only when he becomes frustrated or confused do I remember."

"That means I'll have to look at..." Charles cleared his throat. "I've a bad feeling, Phoebus."

"You'll forget about it after a few days." Phoebus licked his fingers and began to pinch the wicks of the candles surrounding them. Within moments, Quasimodo approached bearing a lit taper in his right hand. A basket of new candles lay slung over his left forearm.

Charles adjusted his shirt collar as Quasimodo neared him and Phoebus. He swallowed, suddenly averting his gaze from the approaching figure. His hand remained near his chest, grasping the fastening to his winter cloak. "He's just a man. Claude Frollo's adopted son. Just a man." Charles reassured himself.

"Good morning, my friend." Phoebus' voice boomed. A firm pat on the bell ringer's lopsided shoulders followed.

Charles turned, to see Quasimodo within arm's reach, re-lighting the snuffed candles. Phoebus quickly placed himself between the two.

"Monsieur Quasimodo Frollo, this is Monsieur Charles de Gondelaurier, my uncle."

Charles reached forward, taking the bell-ringer's hand into his own before he could lower himself. His hand was massive, callused and strong. Charles kept a loose grip, praying to himself that his knuckles would not crumble if the bell-ringer's grip were to tighten.

"Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Frollo." Charles spoke slowly, exaggerating every movement of his lips. He turned as Phoebus coughed dramatically into his gloved fist. Quasimodo's right eyebrow raised at a nearly comical angle.

"Lord de Gondelaurier." Quasimodo nodded, releasing Charles' hand. "Thank you for offering to teach me."

Charles eyed Quasimodo, unsure where to place his attention. He focused on his right eye. Drawing his right hand to his chest, he enveloped it into his left hand, gently massaging his knuckles.

"I need your permission to obtain the ledgers for your fief from the Palace of Justice."

Quasimodo nodded.

"Very well. I shall meet with you on Friday after the noon bells." Charles nodded to Phoebus. "You shall bring him so that he does not lose his way."

* * *

"I made a terrible mistake."

Charles paced in his office. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw Quasimodo's bruised and twisted face. He remembered the bell-ringers grip on his right hand. A deathly strong, and clearly restrained, grip. He placed both hands on the windowsill, drawing a heavy sigh. He shook his head, struggling to clear his thoughts. Behind him, the door creaked. He turned to see Pierre, bearing a ledger. He returned his attention to the clouds, hovering in the distance.

"I've the list and ledgers you've asked for, Monsieur. It was a bit of a trouble, as Justice Moreau has retired."

"How does one teach what may not be teachable. Pierre?"

"Monsieur, I do not follow you."

"How does one teach a grown man? One who may not even be able to learn?"

"I'm but a scribe and a poet." Pierre placed his list on the table. "To whom are you referring to?"

"Claude Frollo's charge." Charles sighed. "Deaf as a stone, apparently. Have you met him?"

"I've not had the pleasure." Pierre shrugged. "Master Florian orders everything written out for him in advance. If you're concerned, may I suggest doing the same?"

"What if he can't read?" Charles massaged his temples. "What if he can't even think?"

"You say that Claude Frollo raised him. If he can speak, he can read. Claude Frollo valued a proper education, if nothing else." Pierre shrugged.

"As well as murder." Charles looked out the window onto the scorched buildings that dotted the narrow streets. "Fire, filling the prisons, disrupting the simple pleasures of peasants, arresting Roma for petty reasons. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"Monsieur, your nephew appeared confident in Quasimodo's abilities. Would he ever lie to you?"

Charles looked to his bookshelves.

"Phoebus has never lied to me, and he never would. Fetch your cloak. I'm sending you to Notre Dame."

* * *

Fleur-de-Lys danced down the hall, a white feather tucked into the folds of her skirt. She approached Pierre, leaving her father's office.

"What have you, Pierre?"

"Books, my lady, for Monsieur Frollo." Pierre bit his tongue.

"Perhaps I could bring them?" Fleur smiled sweetly.

"Fine ladies such as yourself do not belong on the streets, in the snow." Pierre smiled.

"It is but a dusting. I'm sure it's not so bad today. The sun is shining brightly." Fleur lifted a book from the crate before Pierre could turn away. She flipped through the pages. "Besides, Monsieur Frollo can't possibly want to read through all of those dull, dusty books alone."

"You are barely able to write your own name. He is a competent reader. You would be of no help to him." Pierre took the book from Fleur's hand. "...and I highly doubt that Monsieur Frollo desires a female companion."

"Have you asked him?" Fleur drew her shawl over her shoulders.

"I have not, my Lady." Pierre sighed. "I will not."

"Every young man yearns for love. I assume he is no different." Fleur offered a pout over her raised shoulder, batting her eyelashes. "Having an old grouch for a father, he may be most desperate for it."

Pierre returned the book to the crate.

"My Lady, it would be wise to attend your sewing, music lesson or whatever else your father has arranged for you." Pierre stepped away. He struggled to open the door. A blast of snowy air blew into the mansion. The door slammed shut, the cold, wintry air remained.

Fleur fled into the kitchen, to retrieve a hot beverage, before retreating into the parlour, where a blazing fire awaited her. She sat near the fireplace for a few moments, before looking to the art on the walls. Strong, imposing and elegant nobility appeared in frames, their faces painstakingly rendered in richly-coloured oil. Her ancestors, Phoebus' father and her parents looked down on her. Fleur looked to the large painting of her mother. Her mother, who'd taken her newborn brother with her to see Jesus.

"Did you send him to me?" Fleur held the feather in her hands, looking toward the painting. "Was it you?"

She walked to the table, where a few papers lay unattended. He would be tall, like his father. Yet he would be young, with intelligent eyes. Fleur lifted a piece of charcoal near the page, drawing an oval in the centre. Claude Frollo has been tall, stern and frightening. Her hand lowered to the table, allowing the charcoal to roll away. What was he like? She truly had no idea.

* * *

It was late afternoon. Quasimodo sat in his room, reading through notes and ledgers. Phoebus walked in, carrying a pot, bread and wine. Sunlight passed through the bottle, casting a flash of light across the wall. Quasimodo looked toward the door.

"More books?"

"These are from your uncle." Quasimodo held up the scroll he was reading. "They were dropped off after Terce with a note asking to read and understand as much as possible before Friday. How did you convince him to do this, to send these?"

"I didn't." Phoebus set wine, pottage and bread on the table. He sat on the window ledge, facing Quasimodo.

"These numbers are different. Almost like the Greek..." Quasimodo tapped the parchment with his finger, pausing for a moment. "They are like those in the new printed books."

Phoebus looked at the marks on the page and shrugged.

"What are you reading anyhow? It appears dreadfully boring."

"Five years worth of notes from the fief." Quasimodo placed his hands on a stack of books. "These scrolls were written by your uncle. They explain what to look for in these."

"I see. Esmeralda asked me to bring this." Phoebus drew a roll from the basket. "Take a moment and eat. Neither of us want to hear of you missing meals again."

Quasimodo set the scroll onto the desk. Gratefully, he took the bread and wine that Phoebus offered him.

"Mutton and turnips, again." Phoebus lifted the lid from his pot. A cloud of steam billowed into the cool air. He filled two bowls and passed one to Quasimodo.


	3. January 24, 1482

Thursday, January 24th  


Quasimodo looked over the multiple scrolls and pages that lay out on his table. He noted the different shades of ink, and the flow of numbers up and down. Wine and grain changed in price over the year, the prices dropping at harvest and increasing sharply a few months before. He'd seen merchants bearing cartfuls of wheat, oats and barley through the streets each summer and fall. Lamb and cheese changed price without reason.

Sipping his barley tea, he continued to examine the numbers for lambs, which peaked in early spring and then dropped again until Martinmas. He flipped through the pages, observing the rapid rise, then sudden fall, in price every year. He stared at the pages, the numbers, growing aggravated at the obvious reasons that escaped him. He knitted his fingers through his hair, shaking his head in frustration.

Monks entered the tower, casting a thin layer dust onto him as they climbed the steps and ladders. He looked upward, the knuckles of his interlaced fingers pressing into his hump. He sighed. Hours had passed. Allowing his elbows to lower, he rested his hands on the table for a moment. Looking to the array of pages, he turned his notebook over and walked to the transept.

The streets were dusted with snow. He bundled the edges of the cloak to his neck with his left hand and stroked the head of a chimera with his right.

"Is it wrong to still want?" He looked to her stone eyes. They remained still and unmoving. He gently glided his finger over the stone ear and chin.

"For someone to look at me the way she looks at Phoebus." Quasimodo's words faded into a stuttered breath. He closed his eyes. The None bells tolled. The sky would soon dim. One bell sounded that should not have. He let his elbows rest on the parapet and placed his forehead on his palms. "If listening to that, Paris will think I've gone mad."

Quasimodo felt the broken notes wash over him. He looked to the sky. The timing was nearly correct, the tolling less so. Sensing movement, he turned. Three monks nodded to him before disappearing into the tower. All was silent once more. Quasimodo returned his attention to the chimera.

"I don't even know what I want any longer. Or, maybe I do and know that it will never happen." He sighed. Only the wind answered his words, gently lifting his hair away from his face.

"Ugliest face in all of Paris." His words turned into a whisper, only known to him. "No woman will ever look at me in that way, I'd be daft to think otherwise."

Quasimodo remained still, only drawing his cloak tighter around himself as the winter breeze picked up.

"Is it better to stay in here, alone, as I've done? It would be simpler."

He turned to the chimera, watching her stone lips. They remained sealed, silent. Only when the chill penetrated the thick fabric did he return to his quarters.

* * *

The sun had set, and Notre Dame was nearly empty. Incense remained heavy on the air. A few parishioners lingered throughout the nave. Some visited, others remained in prayer.

Father Lacroix walked through Notre Dame, noting a distant hum of voices. More echoes than usual passed through the many columns. As he strode toward the murmuring and whispers, they dulled and disappeared. Pointed fingers met palms in prayer. Eyes shifted away from the lone figure that fitted candles into the many candelabras. Loose lips releasing hurtful words sealed with the approach of Father Lacroix's footsteps.

Father Lacroix stood in their line of vision, a stern look on his face. Some redirected their focus to their hands, others the floor. The old man nodded in approval before turning his attention to Quasimodo, who had moved to another part of the nave. The old priest followed the bell-ringer, struggling to catch up to him.

"You must be feeling well to move so quickly." Father Lacroix paused, catching his breath.

"They say things." Quasimodo looked to the basket of candles. "They point."

"For now, yes. With each day, it will become less frequent." Father Lacroix lightly rested his hand on Quasimodo's shoulder.

"What makes you so sure?" Quasimodo squinted his eyes, sighing. He looked to the floor, to his in-turned knees and toes. He looked at the aged priest, focusing on his gray eyes. "What could possibly change?"

"Time, my son. No cloak, hood or other covering will change what they see." Father Lacroix removed his hand from Quasimodo's shoulder and gestured to where daylight poured into the church. "Time will change their opinion of you, as will those doors."

Quasimodo narrowed his eyelids slightly, shifting his gaze to the great doors for a moment. His right eyebrow raised as he looked back to the priest.

"Only yesterday, a man was rendered speechless merely by looking at me. He spoke to me as if I were a fool. I was as I am now, bearing only candles."

"He spoke to you. That matters more. With time, either a few months or years, they will pay little attention to what they see. Someday, they will see you for who you are. How long it takes is your decision." Father Lacroix reached into his cassock and lifted out a folded paper, holding it out.

"In less than three weeks, I've been through those doors more than..." Quasimodo paused. "...more than ever."

"Keep using them."

Quasimodo gently took the paper and began to unfold it. Father Lacroix placed his hand on the paper.

"Candelmas is a week away. Part of your duty is to assist the others in lighting the candles, and keeping them lit throughout the day. This explains everything you must know." Father Lacroix shook his head at Quasimodo's worried expression. "Candelmas is a time for new beginnings. What better time to enjoy a festival and a feast with all of Paris."

"I'm not sure." Quasimodo looked to the ground for a moment. "It may not be wise. Notre Dame will be filled."

"There is nothing to fear, Quasimodo. Every member of the clergy attends. Your friends will be here as well. As a member of the Church, it is your duty to attend." Father Lacroix smiled. "Clearly, you are well enough to attend your role."

"The last festival..." Quasimodo began to retreat, his shoulders folding toward his ears, his knees bending under the weight of his body.

"Is best left in the past. Such abuse could never happen within Notre Dame." Father Lacroix looked into Quasimodo's widened eyes. He frowned. "You have my word, none shall harm you within these walls. Not now, and not again."

Father Lacroix walked off, leaving Quasimodo among the columns and flickering candlelight.

Quasimodo remained still, watching as the old priest disappeared into the shadows. He placed the paper into his pocket, then resumed his attention to the candles.

After fitting the last candle, Quasimodo re-lit a small stub. He walked to the stairway leading to his bell-tower. From the upper-most step, he looked into the Notre Dame. Two rows of candles flickered in the nave, the church otherwise clothed in shadow. Notre Dame would be snuffed into complete darkness after Compline.

The flame continued to flicker and dance in his palm as he climbed to his quarters. Quasimodo set the candle into a clay bowl, next to his bed. He draped his tunic and hose over a chair, exchanging them for a woolen tunic that passed his knees. He walked toward the bed while unfolding the paper from Father Lacroix.

While reading the notes, he sat on the bed. Then, he read them again. He set the page on the patchwork quilt and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. Palms resting on his forehead, he pushed his fingers through his hair. He remained still while the entire room trembled. With closed eyes, he allowed the dissonant tolling of Compline to wash over him.


	4. January 25, 1482

Friday, January 25th

"Father, it's only fair."

"My dear, this matter does not concern you. Attend your lesson and think no more of it."

Fleur pouted. Her father extended his arm, directing Fleur toward the parlour. She crossed her arms over her chest. Tears began to well in her blue eyes.

"Fleur, you know better. Madame Duval is awaiting you for your music lesson." Monsieur de Gondelaurier folded his arm around his daughters elbow and walked her to her lesson. As they passed the windows Fleur glanced downward, at the streets below.

"You are a lady, my dear. Act as such."

"Father, I don't understand why you've not introduced us." Fleur pouted. "I've met all of your business partners."

"My sweet child, Monsieur Frollo prefers to keep to himself. He has many books to read and much to work through." Charles stroked his daughters cheek. "Be respectful, my dear, if only this once."

"He's very learned, isn't he?" Fleur placed her hand over her fathers'. She smiled, lowering her chin and looking upward. Her eyes sparkled. "Maybe he needs company. If he's not courting anyone..."

"My dear, Claude Frollo used to terrify you when you were little. He'd ride by on his horse and you'd hide in your mothers' skirts. His son, my dear, I foresee the same reaction."

"Father, I'm sixteen years old. I'm not a child any longer." Fleur crossed her arms.

"Attend your lessons and grant him the privacy he deserves."

"What if we are destined to meet?" Fleur pleaded. "You wouldn't deny destiny."

"Then so be it. Should he ask to meet you by name, I will call you to my study without hesitation." Charles shook his head. "Otherwise, my darling, please leave Monsieur Frollo be."

Fleur opened her mouth to speak, yet met with a firm, disapproving gaze.

"Very well, father. Only upon his request."

"Now, my dear. Your lesson." Charles guided his daughter through the large, ornate door and then closed it behind her.

Fleur-de-Lys stood in the parlour, facing the closed door. Her back faced the balcony, and Notre Dame. Only when her instructor called her did she turn.

"My Lady, you should listen to your father."

"How will I ever find love if father does not introduce me to the young men he counsels? In his study, he sees princes, lords and land-owners. Honorable, eligible and handsome young men." Fleur drew the knuckles of her right hand to her forehead, lifting her chin upward. "I am old, nearly gray and almost a spinster. Does he not wish to see me married?"

"My Lady, take your instrument and bow. You will not gain a husband without proper training in music."

Fleur reluctantly lifted her rebec from the table, plucking the strings until they were in tune. Drawing her bow across the strings, the instrument squealed out a few scales.

"Father has a young man headed to his study at this very moment." Fleur's fingers bounced along the neck of the rebec, her bow lightly grazing the strings, creating softer notes. "He's close to my age, as well. There could not be a better match."

Madame Duval placed a sheet of printed music before Fleur, who studied the crisp lines and rough edges of the paper.

"Your father's business should not concern you."

"It does. How else will I meet my one true love?" Fleur set the paper on a nearby table. "This is cheap, for commoners."

"Pierre found it at the market, and it was not cheap." Madame Duval shook her head. "Words printed by machine. What will those Germans think of next?"

"Why even bother with the words since few may read them? Why not print a beautiful picture instead?"

"Play it, my Lady."

Fleur pouted. She squinted her eyes at the printed page, ignoring the words. She played each note a few times, before singing the words that he father had taught her.

 _L'homme armé doibt on doubter.  
On a fait partout crier  
Que chascun se viegne armer  
D'un haubregon de fer.  
L'homme armé doibt on doubter.*_

"Very good, my Lady." Madame Duval waved her arm to her throat. "Sing it again, yet more clear. Sing it as you would to your lover."

"I must meet him soon." Fleur smiled, tears nearly forming in her eyes as a rosy glow flushed into her cheeks. "He could be there, just within ears reach, sitting with father."

"Then, my Lady, play for him. Make that instrument sing, so that he may hear it and you."

The lesson continued, with Fleur playing her rebec until her fingers bore creases upon calluses.

* * *

Phoebus peered through the door to the Gondelaurier mansion. Pierre quickly approached him.

"You'd best hurry."

A young female voice carried through the air, together with a jaunty off-beat melody.

Quasimodo felt himself being thrown off balance as Phoebus tugged the sleeve of his cloak. The hall was warm, wide and long. He felt a sharp blast of cold air strike his legs as the door thudded closed behind him. Immediately, the light dimmed. He blinked, adjusting to the dimmer, more familiar, lighting.

"Quasi, this way." He watched the intensity of Phoebus' words, then followed him.

Pierre shuffled Quasimodo into Charles' office. Phoebus remained outside the door.

"I shall return when the bells ring."

Quasimodo raised his hand slightly, words of objection barely reaching his lips. Phoebus turned away. The door closed.

"Your companion, is he the bell-ringer?" Pierre questioned.

"Pay him no mind." Phoebus remarked. "He'd likely prefer to have as much privacy as possible."

"What should I call him?" Pierre mused. "Monsieur Quasimodo Frollo? Quasimodo? Bell-ringer? Or, what some people of Paris call him? Hunchback, spell-caster, Claude Frollo's pet demon, the one-eyed cripple..."

Phoebus grew paler as the names continued.

"I jest. Truly." Pierre offered a nervous laugh, before taking a step back and biting his lip. "Honestly, I'd like to ask him how he does it, ringing them all at once in the manner he does."

* * *

Quasimodo stood near the entrance of the office. The wooden door locked behind him. The room was warm, nearly hot, and brightly lit.

Charles de Gondelaurier stood in the office, staring out the window. He heard the door gently close and the gentle scuffing of foot steps.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Frollo. I trust you read through what was sent to you. Tell me, what have you learned."

Charles stood for a moment, awaiting an answer. Only his daughter's voice reached him from the parlour. He turned, to see Quasimodo standing near the door, facing him in anticipation. He stood in his cloak, notebook in hand.

"Have a seat. Tell me what you have learned." Charles gestured to a large plush chair. Quasimodo looked to the chair, his right eyebrow raised slightly. He hesitantly stepped forward, taking the seat offered to him.

Quasimodo opened his notebook and offered it to Charles. He watched as Charles flipped through the pages, nodding approvingly while pacing behind his desk.

"There is a blazing fire two steps away from us. Monsieur Frollo..." Charles swallowed. "I can't bear to see you sweating under that heavy cloak, and it's too cold to be without a fire."

"I make people uncomfortable." Quasimodo tightened his hood. "With all due respect, it's better for you that I keep this."

He glanced upward, tilting his face from view while watching Charles' every movement. Charles leaned over his desk, his hands nearly reaching the bell-ringer. Quasimodo looked up for a moment, his eyes meeting Charles'. Charles turned away for a brief moment. The motion of Quasimodo cringing caused his shoulders to fall.

"Monsieur Fr... Quasimodo. Forgive me. I promised Phoebus I would help you." He sat back on his chair, holding the notebook between them. "I am a man of my word. If your notes are any indication, I'm able to provide the help you need. We will be spending quite a bit of time together in the next while. Please bear with me while we grow acquainted to each other."

Charles opened the notebook to the first blank page and handed it back to Quasimodo. He gestured to a bottle of ink and a quill.

Quasimodo offered a half smile. He obediently removed his cloak, folded it and placed it on his lap.

* * *

* A secular French folk song, think of it as 15th century "Pop music."


	5. January 26, 1482

Saturday, January 26th

The early morning breeze brought with it a cold, penetrating chill known only to the last days of January. Fleur de Lys raced across the square, toward the brightly coloured puppet wagon. Her thick wool skirts flapped and fluttered amid the snow and strong breeze. Snow-dusted cobbles forced her graceful walk into that of an inebriated goose. Her maid-servant, in more suitable shoes, provided a steady arm.

She ended her walk at the miniature stage of a multi-coloured wagon. This was a place where children typically gathered in anticipation of legends and fables. A thin dusting of snow covered the brightly painted green and yellow wood. She wiped away the snow. Despite her frost-touched cheeks and runny nose, her expression was serious. She extended her gloved hand toward the open window, and the puppeteer.

"What brings you this way, my dear young lady?" Clopin reached out his hand. Instead, he felt a coin firmly press into his palm.

"Gypsy, I require a spell."

Clopin closed his fingers around the coin, then turned his hand. He looked to the young lady, her toe tapping with impatience and her pretty teeth chattering from the cold. Clopin tipped the coin onto the street, causing it to bounce on the cobbles, dancing briefly before disappearing into drifting snow. He watched as the young woman gathered the damp coin from the cobbles. For a few moments, she studied the coin as the snow beaded into droplets on it's rough surface. She pouted.

Fleur returned the coin to the ledge of the puppet-show.

"Monsieur. Please." She nudged the coin toward Clopin. "I'm sorry. My heart, it aches for him."

Clopin rested his left elbow on the ledge, his puppet gesturing toward the coin, then the girl.

"What should we do for love? Cast a powerful and forbidden spell?" The puppet shook his tiny head. "I suppose we could use witchcraft or a mystical potion. Perhaps blood sacrifice..." Clopin drew a gloved finger across his throat, whilst directing a toothy grin toward puppet. Puppet crossed his tiny arms and nodded disapprovingly. Clopin shrugged.

"He disagrees. I'm sorry, there is nothing I may do." Clopin turned away, toward his other puppets.

"Please. I beg of you. I feel that this is a sign from God. It is meant to be."

Clopin turned, noticing that he girl remained at his wagon in a state of youthful distress.

"Who is this suitor you speak of?"

"I've seen him many times." Fleur smiled, a wistful, distant smile. "He's tall, a gentleman and ever so handsome. At night, I see him, and I fall farther in love. I beg of you, help him see the deep love I hold for him. Bring him to me through whatever magic you hold."

"You have not met him?" Clopin lifted the coin from the ledge, inspecting its carved edges.

"There was a sign, from God himself. A letter, bearing his name fell before me, as if dropped by an angel." Fleur unfastened something from her belt and placed it on the ledge, next to the coin. "What more is needed? The angel left a feather from his wing. A sign from God, truly."

"Truly." Clopin inspected the cut and notched end of the feather. "What is the name of this man you seek?"

"I must not tell." Fleur took the feather, returning it to her belt. "If I tell my dream, it will not come true. Please, Gypsy, will you help me? By way of magic, parable or wisdom, please help me."

Clopin looked to the girl, her woeful blue eyes staring at him with hope. She clutched the feather in her chilled hands.

"My dear, you have offered much to work with." Clopin took the florin into his gloved hand. "To win a man over, you must appeal to all of his senses. Wherever he goes, whatever he sees, hears or tastes it must remind him of you. The rustle of silk, the scent of perfume, symbols of love or the sound of your footsteps. Lavish it upon him without relenting. If resistance is met, apply your desires with greater persistence. He will follow you."

"Much thanks, Gypsy." Fleur bowed her head, her smile broad.

"One more thing." Clopin leaned over the edge of the stage. He raised his hand, drawing Fleur's full attention. "Let him not see you during any of this, or you will fail. He must approach you, as if by chance. Use this, if you find your efforts are unnoticed."

"I can't thank you enough, Gypsy." Fleur clasped her hands around a small glass bottle, her chilled face radiating joy. She trotted away, her shoes skidding on the cold street. Her servant struggled to keep Fleur from falling as she trotted across the square, toward her family mansion.

"That was bad advice, wasn't it." Clopin remained still, his elbows resting on the ledge of the stage. He looked to puppet.

Puppet nodded.

"It's not as if it's entirely my fault, you know." Clopin looked to the coin, before placing it in his pocket. "My name is not 'Gypsy.' I almost pity the poor Bourgeois that disrespectful child has set her heart on."

* * *

Phoebus and Esmeralda walked through the marketplace. Esmeralda led Phoebus to the bakers, to the almond cakes displayed in the window.

"These are delicious. Last time I had one, it was in Spain. We should buy one for him." Esmeralda drew Phoebus toward the shop. "We could share it this evening."

Phoebus paused as he saw his cousin and her maidservant approaching. She rushed over, lifting the hem of her dress away from the slushy cobbles.

"Our engagement is over, cousin. I have found a new suitor, more esteemed, handsome and of much better standing." Fleur tossed her hair over her shoulder.

"I am truly happy for you." Phoebus nodded. "Where did you meet this young man."

"Oh, I've not met him." Fleur smiled. "He loves me, he just doesn't know it yet." Fleur shrugged as she spoke. A small glass bottle reflected sunlight as she raised her hand, before disappearing into the sleeve of her dress.

Phoebus remained stone-faced. Esmeralda paused, her eyes fixating on where the bottle had been.

"Don't be silly. You're both invited to the wedding." Fleur smiled, then trotted away. Her maidservant nodded an apology, before following her charge back into the crowd.

Esmeralda elbowed Phoebus' arm, startling him.

"That girl, who is she?" Esmeralda's words were slow.

"My cousin, Fleur-de-Lys. Never mind her."

"She's up to no good. That bottle is not from an apothecary."

"I'll not eat any of her cooking, then." Phoebus placed a kiss on Esmeralda's cheek. "Come, my dear. You wanted to buy Quasimodo an almond cake."

* * *

Fleur stood in her dressing room, filling her pomander with freshly crushed cloves, rosemary, oils and perfumes. She secured the latch and lifted it from her table. The silver sphere was adorned with holes, arranged into rose-like swirls. It swung from its plain silver chain. Rolling the pomander in her hand, she scoured her room for something else. Light blue lace caught her attention. Carefully, she tied the lace around the silver chain, forming a bow. She placed the pomander in her pocket and trotted to the parlour.

Voices traveled down the hall, from her father's study. Pierre and her father were talking. She left the door ajar, listening for the footfalls of her father. She sat near the door, fiddling with the strings of her rebec. She loosened the strings of her bow, then tightened them. She played a few scales, softly sounding each note.

She stood, once again peering down the hall. The hall remained deserted. She raced back to her chair, nearly dropping her bow in excitement.

Fleur hastily drew her rebec to her shoulder, moving her fingers in the patterns Madame Duval had shown her. Her father's footsteps drummed on the floor. Her heart bounded against her chest.

The parlour door opened. Fleur drew a deep breath, her eyes watering at the overwhelming scent of cloves and perfume. She buried the pomander in the folds of her skirt. She sat tall in her chair, placing the rebec on her lap.

"Good morning, father."

"Good morning, my angel." Charles kissed his daughters' forehead. "Madame Duval will be along in a moment. You are to wait here for her.

"Of course, father." Fleur nodded. "I will practise my scales."

"You look just like your mother used to when she was up to something." Charles laughed, stroking his daughter's cheek. "Whatever it is, my dear, please keep it within this room."

"Of course, father." Fleur smiled. She sat tall on her chair and continued to finger her scales, creating barely any tone. Charles stepped from the room, securing the door behind him.

Fleur set down her rebec and jumped from the chair, racing to the door. She pressed her ear against the wood, listening to the hallway.

"Phoebus said he'll marry her in the spring, two weeks after Easter. There is no reason to wait so long."

"The spring is fast approaching."

"With the bitterness in the air the last few days, it's any wonder it will come at all."

The voices faded away toward the kitchen, as did the footsteps. She cracked the door and looked toward the kitchen and her father's office. The hall was empty. The noon bells rang out in the background, masking the banging of pans in the kitchen. Fleur stepped into the hall and ran toward her father's office.

Fleur scanned the desk, chairs and shelves. Somewhere hidden, yet not impossible to find. Her heart pounded, much like her father's footsteps. Was he approaching? The beats began to echo in her ears. She placed her hand on her chest, gasping as she realized the pounding was her own heartbeat.

Quickly, Fleur stashed her pomander deep into the chair cushion, where father's guests sat. She bolted from the office, slamming the door behind her.

Hastily, Fleur seated herself in the parlour. She returned the rebec to her shoulder. Her heart raced, as did the bow across the strings. She lost track of the notes she played, skipping through the scales randomly until finding her place, only to lose it again. Her heart continued to pound. Fleur placed her hand on her chest, then turned to the closed door. She quit her instrument.

Father's footsteps echoed outside the door. He was not alone. There were two other sets of footsteps. She could hear the faint clinking of armour. Phoebus was with him. The other set of footsteps was heavy yet light, and slightly uneven.

"I will come for you after Vespers." Phoebus' voice was soft. Fleur leaned closer to the door.

"Isn't that your responsibility?" This was her Father.

"I resume my duties on Thursday." This voice was different, likely that of Monsieur Frollo.

A door closed. A single set of footsteps, complete with clinking armour, passed the parlour door and disappeared. A thudding door shielded her from further disturbance.

* * *

Quasimodo sat in the large study, across from Charles de Gondelaurier.

"We'd best start at livestock and accounts, as they require frequent attention." Charles lay out a set of books on the table. "You already understand that funds flow in and out of the property."

Quasimodo nodded, opening one of the books.

"This details the amount of flour consumed and the number of swine slaughtered for food last year on your fief. As you see, there are eight cows on this land, as well as many flocks of geese. Your vassal should provide these numbers to you every three months."

Quasimodo scanned over the notes, noting more of the strange-looking numbers arranged in charts and columns.

"Fortunately, your predecessor kept exquisite records and they were easily located in the Palace of Justice." Charles flipped through another ledger. "Everything produced, sold, consumed and purchased is recorded in these ledgers. Taxes are current."

Moving himself in the chair, Quasimodo felt the seat cushion. His attention away from Charles and to the plush seat under him.

"Is something the matter, Quasimodo?" Charles raised his eyebrow.

"I don't know."

Quasimodo grasped a piece of lace and pulled it. He leaned forward, allowing the object to slide from under the cushions. As he removed it, a wave of odor surrounded him and Charles. Spices and bits of leaves fell onto the floor, disappearing into the rug. Suddenly distracted by a strong odor, Charles coughed.

"What is this?" Quasimodo held up a flattened sphere. He moved his finger to his nose, holding the object at arms-length.

"It is for me to deal with later, Monsieur." Charles looked to the door and sighed. Lifting the crushed pomander from Quasimodo's hand, he carried it outside of the room, looping it over the door handle. "I'm truly sorry for that. Shall we continue?"

Quasimodo held his quill and nodded.

"Very well then. There were six calves at the end of the summer. One died on pasture, two were stillborn."

"That would be nine."

"Cattle may have twins." Charles smiled "Sheep may have up to three lambs each spring. The records don't suggest theft. Theft of livestock is serious, and could cost more than the price of the animals lost."

As the afternoon wore on, they ate bread and sipped wine. Charles lectured. Quasimodo asked, and answered questions and wrote in his book. As Vespers approached, and the sky dimmed, the lesson ended. Phoebus arrived, leading Quasimodo away from the Gondelaurier mansion.

While leaving the room, Quasimodo turned, noting the crushed metal orb has been removed from the door handle. Only a dusting of strong, smelling powder remained on the floor.


	6. January 27, 1482

Sunday, January 27th

Fleur pouted at the flattened pomander. It lay unceremoniously dumped on her dressing table. She wrinkled her nose at the strong scent. She carried the damaged silver toward the fireplace, unclasping the latch and tossing the contents onto the burning coals. The flames swallowed the rosemary, cloves and perfumes, creating a nauseating combination of odors. Fleur held her shawl to her nose, guarding herself from the smoke.

Returning to her chair nearest the window, she resumed her needlework. The Lauds sounded over Paris, Notre Dame first, followed by a sprinkling of smaller bells throughout the city. Crimson threads formed the beginning of an elegant "G" on the kerchief. It would make an excellent gift for father. Fleur held her work at arm's length. She re-traced the lines of the "G," carefully forming it into an "F." She smiled, shaping a few cut threads into the new letter.

For a few moments, Fleur played with the threads. Red was strong, bright and her father's favourite. Pulling different colours from her basket, she twisted blue and red threads together, and pouted. Amber made the crimson appear sickly. Purple was expensive and harder to find. She wrapped a purple skein around the crimson and smiled. Such a combination demanded attention. She giggled with excitement and resumed her embroidery. Rhythmic, gentle pops sounded as Fleur-de-Lys layered thread upon thread. Her heart bounded as she formed that simple letter, as if he would be there for her any moment.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then gazed out the window. Monsieur Frollo would be devout Christian. Was he within Notre Dame now?

A fist pounded the door. Fleur jumped, poking her finger. Immediately, she placed her finger between her lips. A servant stood at the door.

"My lady, are you not ready?"

Fleur looked to her embroidery, then to her servant.

"The Lauds only rang a few moments ago."

"My Lady, it will soon be Terce. Your father is waiting for you."

"He could be there." Fleur whispered to herself. She hastily tossed her embroidery into her basket and jumped to her feet. "Quick! Find my blue dress, the one that Father ordered from Florence!"

"Yes, my Lady."

Fleur combed through her tangled blonde hair with her fingers. She searched through her drawers and baskets for suitable jewellery and fabrics. She turned to see her maidservant carefully laying out clothes and accessories on the table.

"My Lady..." her servant held a brush.

Fleur stood quiet, then seated herself. As her servant dressed her hair and tied it securely with clasps and ribbons, she could feel excitement boil inside her. She stood quietly as she was dressed in layer upon layer of fabric and lace. Lovingly, Fleur adjusted her mother's jewellery on her neck.

"How do I look, Virginie?"

"Like an angel, my Lady. Your father is waiting."

Before leaving her quarters, Fleur-de-Lys slipped the white feather from her table and secured it to her belt. She disappeared down the hall.

* * *

Notre Dame was filled with people. Fleur remained a few steps behind her father, watching them. Parents chased children through the crowds, their shrill cries echoing through the otherwise peaceful nave. Old ladies stood in groups, gossiping about who'd been pilloried or hung, and who would be next. Roma remained in dimly-lit areas, some appearing to have slept on the marble tiles. Roma children sat near their parents, some playing with wooden dogs and dolls. A firm hand grasped her wrist.

"My dear, we should take our places."

Fleur turned to her father. She allowed him to lead her through the crowd, to the place they sat every Sunday. She seated herself among the other nobility. Older men, some with young wives, greeted her. Their sons and daughters, many of them now married, sat away from the older folks, and her.

Fleur looked to her left, away from her father. There was no one there. She scanned the crowd, Phoebus was absent. Only familiar faces, those of other Bourgeois, looked back at her. Fleur looked forward, to the procession of clergy.

The Deacons and Priests began service, the voice of a single aged man filling the nave. He spoke in Latin, as always. She understood none of it. Fleur looked to her punctured finger, where only a red dot remained on her otherwise perfect skin. She passed her thumb over the callused fingertips on her left hand, endless victims of the rebec.

Fleur felt her father's elbow touch her arm. She met her father's stern gaze before again looking forward.

The sermon continued, as did a procession of monks and nuns. Fleur turned her attention upward, to the stained glass windows and sculptures. She followed the lines of the vaulted ceiling, the rainbow light and shadows dancing softly by changes in cloud and candlelight.

"He's here somewhere." Fleur thought, suddenly sitting tall. Every face she could see, she either knew, or they did not matter to her. She peered ahead of her, to where Claude Frollo frequently sat during mass. An old, fat lawyer had taken his place.

As mass ended, Charles immediately stood and began to leave. Fleur began to walk toward the altar. A firm pull of her father's hand brought her back to the moving crowd. She walked past the other nobility and the merchants. As they neared the doors, she passed the farmers, peasants and Roma. She raised her nose while passing by the lower classes, determined not to cast further glances upon them.

* * *

Quasimodo felt a thumb jab into his shoulder.

"It seems you interpreted Psalm 32:7* a bit too literally, Quasi." Phoebus laughed.

"I've been outside every day this past week." Quasimodo shook his head. "What is he saying?"

"Yes Phoebus." Esmeralda crossed her arms. "Enlighten us."

"It appears a sermon about hope." Phoebus stated flatly.

"It is." Clopin hissed. "Some of us would know that if you'd be quiet."

Quasimodo remained still, enjoying the warmth and levity of mass with his friends. Even the dirty looks and bickering shared between Phoebus and Clopin caused him to smile. Eventually, people began to leave the nave.

"It becomes easier each day, doesn't it." Esmeralda beamed.

"Not really." Quasimodo pulled his hood further over his head. "I could just as easily pray under the bells."

Esmeralda and Phoebus remained next to Quasimodo, watching much of Paris leave the cathedral.

Phoebus waved at his cousin as she passed. A disappointed huff escaped him when she passed by without so much as a glance.

* * *

"Teach me to read." Fleur begged her father.

"Darling, there is no possible reason for a woman to read."

"Please, father. I want to know." Fleur held up the printed page of music. "I may read the music, but few of the words. If not the Latin text, I wish to learn what is written here. I wish to enjoy the poetry shared among students and scholars."

"Fleur..."

"Please teach me, or send a tutor." Fleur smiled, looking up at her father. "Someone learned, who has time available. Maybe someone who could use a little company."

Charles looked at his daughter, who stared at him expectedly. He sighed.

"Very well, my dear. I will consider it." Charles stroked his daughter's cheek lovingly. "Whatever madness has come over you, let it keep you from causing further trouble."

"Thank-you, father." Fleur bounced into her father's arms, hugging him and placing a kiss on his cheek.

"Now, my dear. You have other tasks, do you not?"

"Of course, Father."

Fleur returned to the parlour and looked at the plain oval, the empty face on a page. He must have deep, expressive, thoughtful eyes. He would have the eyes of a poet. Blue eyes, a blue as clear and bright as the noon sky.

She drew his eyebrows with the charcoal. Having placed the left one too high, she brushed it away. They would be thick, like those of the Greek philosophers. He was learned, seemed to have endless free time and was certainly able to read. No doubt he would be an excellent teacher.

"Where were you?" Fleur darkened the eyebrows on the picture, forming them into thoughtful arches. "Were you staying somewhere in the country, or in the service like Phoebus? Why are your only now in Paris?"

Fleur pouted at the asymmetrical face she'd created. She quickly corrected her lines, reshaping them into someone handsome and thoughtful.

"Wherever you were then, it does not matter now." Fleur turned the drawing's mouth into a smiling line. "You will be with me soon."

* * *

* Psalm 32:7: You are a hiding place for me; you preserve me from trouble; you surround me with shouts of deliverance.


	7. January 28, 1482

Monday, January 28th

Fleur left her dressing room and stepped down the hall, past the parlour and to the closed door of her father's office. A smile grew broad on her face as she listened to the voices inside.

Placing her ear to door, her fingers spread out over the polished wood, Fleur listened. Two voices reached her ears. That of her father, which was deep and booming. The other, that of Monsieur Frollo, was soft, gentle and youthful.

"If you follow the prices, you will see that there is more demand in the spring, immediately before Easter." Charles slid a parchment across the table. "This is why honey is best stored until spring."

Quasimodo read the pages.

"Of course! This is why the price of lambs increases." Quasimodo tapped the paper and laughed. Charles raised an eyebrow.

"Claude Frollo always brought two lambs for the Easter feast..." Charles held up his hand, raising two slightly curled fingers. His words froze on his lips. His eyes shifted to the window and back to Quasimodo, who held the paper.

"There is so much to know." Quasimodo leaned forward. "If the bees are in baskets, why are they killed for their honey?"

"I don't know that answer to that, fortunately." Charles shrugged. "The wax is used to make candles. The brood make an excellent meal when fried."

"Who would eat fried bees?"

"A good vassal will predict market demands, follow the trends and sell when prices are highest." Charles held the ledger in his hands. "As owner, you are expected to meet with those running the fief every few months. This may be done while collecting statements. Communication between you and the vassal is of utmost importance. He must be trustworthy."

"I've met him. He... Monsieur Gauthier " Quasimodo glanced to the ceiling for a moment, before looking the the floor and blinking slowly. "He said some unkind words."

"I see." Charles frowned. "Most unfortunate."

Fleur listened carefully. His words were clear and well-spoken, certainly those of an educated man. He seemed enthusiastic and clever. Yet, there was something unusual about his voice. She closed her eyes while listening, noting that subtle changes of intonation were lacking within each word. She opened her eyes and looked to the door, her eyebrow raised slightly.

My Lady, your father has given strict instruction. You are to attend your lessons while your father is in his meetings."

Fleur turned. Pierre stood at the entrance, bearing a tray with wine, rolls and brie.

"You've met Monsieur Frollo?" Fleur beamed as she jumped to her toes, her hands clapping softly. "Please, tell me something about him."

Pierre paused for a moment. What could he say? Quasimodo was, quite frankly, unnerving to look at.

Pierre opened his eyes to see Fleur's humorously intense glare fixed on him. Her hands remained clasped at her chest, fingers inter-laced. She nearly bounced in anticipation.

"He appears very strong, my Lady. Now, if you do not mind, I am required elsewhere." Pierre looked into Fleur's eyes, his eyebrow cocked. "Is Madame Duval not awaiting you in the parlour?"

"I was just on my way there. I was hoping to ask father a question."

"Your father will be available after Terce, my Lady." Pierre gestured down the hall. He opened the door wide enough to pass through, then closed it firmly.

Fleur stood for a moment before moving to the door of her fathers' study. Carefully, she grasped the handle and leaned backward. The door jiggled and rattled, yet did not budge. It was locked from the inside.

"Your lesson, my Lady."

Fleur jumped to attention. She turned to face Madame Duval, who held a bow in her hand. Fleur nodded, her lips suddenly sealed.

"Your father will want to know that you are progressing. This way."

Reluctantly, Fleur followed her instructor.

Pierre cleared an area on the desk for the food and drink. Charles stepped away. Quasimodo followed Charles with his eyes as he stepped across the room.

He opened the door, disappearing for a moment. When he returned, his face was red.

"With that distraction gone, let us continue." He looked to Quasimodo's blank expression. "You can't tell me that you didn't hear that."

"Not a word."

"Interesting. My nephew shall assist you in visiting the fief. Arsene must have some sense talked into him. If leaving in a few hours, you could be home by tomorrow afternoon."

Quasimodo backed up in the chair, shaking his head.

"I would not mind going myself, as the cheese made there is exquisite." Charles paused. "My father used to visit often. Henri and Angelique Frollo were friends of my parents, you see."

"Oh no, I don't leave Paris."

Charles looked to the bell-ringer.

"Candelmas is less than a week away." Quasimodo stuttered. "There is much to do within Notre Dame. It wouldn't be possible anyhow."

Charles raised his eyebrow, studying the nervousness of his student.

"Phoebus and I will go together, then. This time. We shall take Snowball, as Phoebus has informed me that he's become unmanageable in the stables." Charles gathered a few papers. "If I may be so bold to state, your greatest limitation is not what you think it is. It's your own confidence."

Quasimodo leaned back in his seat, his breaths increasing in depth. His eyes widened briefly, before he looked to the floor and closed them for a moment. He sighed. Charles waited for Quasimodo to return his attention to him.

"If you are to manage this fief properly, Quasimodo, you must make your presence known. The best vassal may only do so much. Those living at the fief must know you, respect you and remain happy in their role."

"Is that possible?"

"Phoebus has faith in your ability, thus I do as well. Continue your lessons while we are gone. I shall have Pierre gather a few volumes and bring them to Notre Dame later this afternoon."

"I will read every word." Quasimodo nodded.

"Very well." Charles sighed. "I shall send Phoebus to collect you upon our return."

* * *

Esmeralda left the bakery, fresh rolls now in her basket next to a bottle of wine. She slipped into Notre Dame, Djali at her heels. The tower remained empty, only a warm bed of coals greeting her. She stirred the fire, casting a wall of heat through the tower. Having gathered a few dishes, she sat next to the warming fire and waited.

The floorboards bounced slightly. Esmeralda stood, turning to face Quasimodo. Djali rubbed his head against the bell-ringers' leg, begging for attention.

"You could have called for me." Quasimodo stepped toward the fire.

Esmeralda remained still, watching her friend. Quasimodo appeared stronger with each passing day, a healthy glow finally returning to his skin. He wore a well-patched green tunic, his hair lay in all directions.

"I assumed you were lost in your books or performing some other duty." Esmeralda stepped through the tidied bell-tower, before leaning against a beam. "When will this place be yours again? I mean, the bells, they sound almost familiar yet lack life in their songs."

"Three days." Quasimodo looked up, toward the bells. "Were it sooner, life may seem more normal. They ring so frequently, I never noticed until now. Sleeping through the night is a nice change."

"Your hands bring the city to life each day. Anything else brings unease." Esmeralda gazed up into Gabrielle. "Every citizen in Paris knows that something is wrong."

Esmeralda turned to see a young pair of monks walk by. They nodded at Esmeralda and continued toward the steps.

"Each time, they find me."

"They are concerned for you. Many of us are." Esmeralda wrapped her arms around Quasimodo, giving him a gentle squeeze. She stepped back, standing with her hands resting on his shoulders. "Be grateful that others care about you."

Quasimodo smiled, a rosy glow appearing on his cheeks.

"I brought something for us." Esmeralda moved to her basket, spreading items out on a plain cloth. "Something familiar and something new. Fresh rolls, dates and, my favourite, wine."

Quasimodo turned toward the entrance for a moment, hesitantly moving back toward Esmeralda. She had already poured two cups of wine. Both vessels were glass, and nearly identical.

"You want to return to your reading. I understand." Esmeralda sighed. "Phoebus left when the sun was high. There is plenty of daylight remaining."

Quasimodo and nodded, taking a seat beside his friend. Esmeralda opened a small sack of grain and set it out for Djali.

"You could leave this place if you wanted, you know. You could travel the world." She drew a sip of wine.

"Where would I go?"

"Anywhere you want to, Quasi." Esmeralda continued to sip her wine while looking through the confined space of the bell-tower. "Your fief may be a nice place to start."

"How do people live there? Are they allowed to leave?" Quasimodo ate a few dates.

"The owner of the fief determines how well the people live." Esmeralda shrugged. "Even if life is stressful, most of them probably stay. Leaving what one knows is difficult."

Esmeralda turned to Quasimodo, who nodded in agreement while staring at the roll in his hands.

"Even now, the people of Paris look down on me..." Quasimodo shook his head.

"Not everyone does and you know it..." Esmeralda butted in. Quasimodo continued

"...I've seen what they say, the words they use. Those at the fief would behave no different."

"Word travels quickly, especially with the minstrels traveling about these days. The people living there, they undoubtedly know your name and who you are." Esmeralda set her hand on his. "A few trips outside of Paris, with friends, would be good for you. There is no need to hire a wagon to Versailles."

"Maybe in the spring." Quasimodo sighed.

"No one else can do this for you. Phoebus and I can be with you, and we will be if you ask." Esmeralda squeezed his thumb. "You need to put yourself out there."

The coals soon died back, the food disappeared. Esmeralda gathered her things.

"I will see you tomorrow after Prime, if that suits you."

"I would like that."

"I'll meet you under the statue of Saint Denis, then. Take care, my friend."


	8. January 29, 1482

Tuesday, January 29th

The brilliant blue light of an early winter morning lay over Paris. Fleur-de-Lys trotted across the square, her maidservant struggling to keep up with her.

"My lady, please slow down. You will fall."

Fleur ignored the pleas of her maid and trotted through the crowd of peasants, Roma, merchants, students and farmers.

Upon entering Notre Dame, Fleur immediately slowed her pace. She began to scan the parishioners and clergy. People of all sorts, in all types of clothes dotted the Cathedral. Young men were few in number, none of them well-dressed. Voices, old and young, prayed for wealth and love. She passed by them

A few others knelt at the altar, offering prayers and lighting candles. Fleur kneeled on the steps, lowering her head and closing her eyes. Her maid remained a few steps behind, resting beside a pillar.

A vision of her own mother appeared before her. She smiled for a brief moment, before tears began to form. How long had it been? Twelve years? Her brother had never cried, had never drawn breath. She prayed for both of them, wherever they were now. Her and father struggled without them, wearing a brave face each day.

"Let him find love again, so he's not alone."

Fleur shivered. What she wanted most, more than anything, was what everyone around her also prayed for. It was a selfish desire. The most precious, wonderful gift that she could think of, love. She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to imagine the face of the man with the beautiful, unusual, voice. Every time a face almost appeared, it changed shape into something different and impossible.

She grasped the candle in her hands. Her own heart felt empty, her own spirit incomplete. She held the candle to her chest, her wrists shaking with each heartbeat. Tears continued to flow from her eyes. She prayed that God and his angels would send her one true love, and future husband, to her as soon as possible. She prayed that the angel feather, the omen, on her belt would lead her to him.

Fleur-de-Lys placed the candle on the altar. As she raised the burning reed, her lips moved in silence.

"Please let Monsieur Frollo cross my path today."

The candle flame grew. Fleur watched it for a few moments. When she stood, she turned to find her maid a few paces behind her.

* * *

Prime had sounded, it's damaged notes taunting him as he descended the tower steps, into the nave. Dion passed him a large mug of mulled cider. Quasimodo stepped from Notre Dame, seating himself under the statue of Saint Denis. He pulled his cloak around his legs and ears, making himself comfortable against the wall. Under cover of his cloak, he watched the crowd.

He sipped at the hot drink, struggling to place the different flavours. He watched the square for a familiar goat. People passed by him, without so much as a glance. He smiled looking into his cup, catching his muddied reflection. He returned his attention to the square. The puppeteer, Clopin, placed decorations on his new wagon on the southwest of the square, near an old carriage shop. On the other from northwest, teams of horses brought wagon-loads of goods to the market.

A flurry of colour passed him, moving from Notre Dame. He started as a splash of cider flew from his cup, sprinkling his nose and left eyebrow. He looked up, only to see a woman in a shiny blue dress and fur-lined cloak flee into the crowded square. Another woman, wearing darker, more faded clothes patted him on the shoulder before running off.

He wiped the cider from his face with his sleeve and scanned the square. They had disappeared into the growing crowd.

Quasimodo turned when someone sat next to him, bearing an empty basket. Djali's head appeared between his feet.

"It's a nice day, isn't it."

"It's just as cold here as it is on the transept."

"We should warm you up, then." She grasped Quasimodo's hand, drawing him into the square.

Quasimodo swallowed, his feet planting themselves at the foot of the entrance. He felt a gentle pull on his thumb, then found himself following Esmeralda into the crowd. He remained at her side as she walked into the square. Djali remained with him while she spoke with various shop-owners and filled her basket. People walked by, some nearly bumping into him. He moved closer to the shops as the crowd became more intense.

The puppeteer's wagon neared into view. Esmeralda walked inside, leaving the door open. Quasimodo peered into the brightly-coloured space. Clopin waved at him, before placing his hands behind himself and shedding his puppets.

"Good morning, bell-ringer." Clopin nodded, extending his gloved hand.

Quasimodo looked at the puppeteers hand for a moment, before accepting it into his own. Quasimodo started as he felt the puppeteer firmly grasp his hand and give it a hearty shake.

"Clopin Trouillifou, Duke of Egypt, King of Truands." The man bowed.

"Quasimodo..." He lightly squeezed Clopin's hand. "...bell-ringer."

"So he does speak." Clopin shrugged. "Thank-you, brother. You are always welcome among the Roma."

Clopin motioned to a box. "This is for you, sister."

"Thank-you, Clopin. Most appreciated."

Esmeralda took the box and set her bag on top. She stepped out of the wagon. Quasimodo raised his chin, attempting to peer into the basket. Esmeralda lifted it away.

"Shouldn't I help you carry that?"

"That would ruin the surprise" Esmeralda laughed. "You'll find out when we get to your loft."

"Mead, lunch and..." Esmeralda lay out a polished and painted piece of wood, pouring a bag of flattened stones and a pair of dice on top. "...jeux de tables."

Quasimodo looked at the painted triangles and flattened stones. "This is for gambling. It's wrong."

"It's a game, for fun among friends." Esmeralda nodded toward his table as she laid out ripened cheese and fritters . "You have a deck of cards, and those are also used for gambling."

Quasimodo looked to the game, then back to Esmeralda.

"I'll show you how to play. It's rather fun." Esmeralda began to set the board. "You need a new deck, the ace of hearts is missing."

"It is." Quasimodo nodded, then took a fritter. "Why did Clopin call me 'brother'?"

"Your mother was Roma." Esmeralda took a slice of cheese. "Clopin's finally accepted that you're one of our... That you're one of _his_ people. Take it as a compliment. He's not generally the most welcoming, as you know."

Esmeralda took a sip of mead and nudged the cheese toward Quasimodo, who continued to enjoy his cider.

"Shall we start?" Esmeralda lifted the dice.

Quasimodo nodded. He finished his cider, pulling the mug away when something heavy touched his lips. He tilted the cup, a sou falling onto his palm.

Esmeralda laughed.

"How long were you waiting outside? Someone mistook you for a beggar!"

* * *

Fleur-de-Lys slipped into her father's study. She gently laid a scented hair ribbon between the books stacked on her father's desk. She scanned the office for something, anything left by Monsieur Frollo. No one but him, her father and Pierre has stepped into this room since yesterday morning.

Passing her hand over the chair, her fingers caught a few long, black hairs. Some were coarse, that of a horse. The others were wavy and black. He must have black hair, as well as his steed. Fleur slipped out of the office, trotting down the hall to the kitchen.

"Good morning, my Lady." The chef smiled at Fleur. "You are after another cup of warmed mead?"

"That would be most lovely, Alfred. I feel chilled." Fleur smiled. "What are you serving father and his guest today?"

"Poppyseed cake, my lady. Would you care to try some?"

"But of course." Fleur twirled her hair around her index finger, looking at the pastries. "I could help prepare these for you."

"You are too kind, my Lady."

"It is no trouble at all." Fleur arranged crushed almonds into a "G" on one of the cakes. Silently, she withdrew the cork from a small bottle and poured the mixture onto the other pastry. It soaked in as quickly as she could pour it. She reached for the honey jar.

"How much would you like, my Lady?"

"Just a small piece, Alfred." Fleur poured honey over both pastries, saturating them. "Father likes sweets, after all."

"He does." Alfred laughed and passed Fleur-de-Lys a plate of poppyseed cake and a cup of mead. She licked the honey from her fingers, accepted both and stepped out of the kitchen. She returned to the parlour.

Fleur looked at the drawing. His voice, it was soft and uncertain. His lips would be beautiful, his smile merry. Between bites of pastry, she drew thick lines with the charcoal, causing bits to crumble away. Only beautiful lips could create such gentle words. He would have to have a strong chin, Pierre said he was strong. She imagined the Norsemen she'd heard about in myths. Thor, Odin and Loki appeared in her mind.

She played with the lines, while imaging what his nose would be like. Claude Frollo had a broken beak for a nose. Would his son have the same? Would he have his mother's nose? Fleur paused. Claude Frollo had a wife? Was she dead, too?

"Claude Frollo never married." Her father's words repeated themselves. She must have died while giving birth, after a secret marriage. Fleur frowned. He must be lonely.

Pierre suddenly entered the parlour. Fleur-de-Lys looked up from her drawing.

"Good afternoon, my lady." Pierre beamed. "Your father has sent me to teach you."

Fleur remained on her seat, her voice struggling to appear.

"I'm ever so glad that you're interested in learning about the printed word. The power of written language is immense." Pierre beamed. He spread papers before him on the chaise, ruffling through the pages and covering the drawing. "Just where do we start? What have you read already?"

Pierre looked up, to see Fleur in the same position she was when she had entered the room.

"You were expecting someone else, my Lady?"

Fleur nodded, her shoulders slumping at the heap of papers on the table.

"Monsieur Frollo is with your father. While your father is occupied, I'm available to teach you." Pierre passed Fleur a quill. "Before we begin, what do you know?"

Fleur looked to the quill and paper.

* * *

Charles was discussing accounting and the status of the fief when a servant stepped in bearing a tray and kettle. Charles readily took the pastry bearing the large "G" in almonds..

"You should try this, it's a favourite." Charles tapped the pastry with his spoon. He was eating before the barley tea could be poured.

Quasimodo poked at the golden, shiny pastry set before him. It was sticky and carried a pungent odor. Clumps of seeds fell from the edge, forming small mounds on the thick pool of honey.

"Thank-you, Monsieur." Quasimodo accepted the tea. "This appears too sweet for me."

"Very well." Charles shrugged and pulled the second pastry to his side of the desk. "Arsene was reasonable this morning. He's keen to retain his position, and has agreed to work with you. Snowball will be used on some of the lighter mares this spring to build strong foals next summer."

The lesson continued. Quasimodo wrote notes, asked questions and enjoyed the hot tea. At the end of the lesson, Charles closed a book, using the blue ribbon on his desk as a bookmark. He passed the book to Quasimodo, then sent him away with Phoebus.

Charles slid the plate onto his palm and sat back in his chair. He drew a large piece of poppyseed filling to his lips. The unusual odor caused him to pause for a moment, to question if it had gone off in the past hour.

Charles ate the pastry.


	9. January 30, 1482

Wednesday, January 30th

Freezing rain fell in the square, forming a thin layer of ice that sparkled with the first morning light. Fleur-de-Lys wandered into the kitchen. She admired the fresh rolls and dried fruits.

"What are you preparing today?"

"Dariole." Alfred stated flatly. "Your father was rambling about Aloïse,* then accused me of using the 'wrong type' of poppyseeds. The nerve!"

"I've never seen anything like it." Fleur leaned over the pan. It was still warm. She hovered her finger over the matte surface.

"Don't you dare touch it." Fleur pulled her hand away at the cook's scolding. "I bought the recipe last week at the market. Your father should enjoy it, it's sweet enough to satisfy him."

Fleur drew a cup from the shelf and prepared herself a cup of granatus, while the cook looked on. She sorted through the mugs, waiting for Alfred to look away. Her father's favourite mug was missing. She rapidly sprinkled the remaining liquid from the vial into both mugs. It formed a glossy layer on the inside of the ceramic, quickly drying into a thin glaze. When Alfred returned his attention to her, she was sipping from her cup.

"Would you be so kind as to send a piece of that pie with my lunch?"

"Of course, my Lady." Alfred nodded.

Fleur-de-Lys walked out of the kitchen, sipping her granatus. Once in the parlour, she practiced her scales on the rebec until they were smooth and her instrument in tune. She then lifted the kerchief from her basket. Her music lesson would start shortly, while father met with Monsieur Frollo. Re-assessing the lines, she continued to layer the threads, creating an elegant "F" from crimson and purple floss.

* * *

"Everyone that works on the fief should be paid." Charles laid a page before Quasimodo. "Whether in housing, goods or wages. It's best to encourage youth to take a trade so that they remain. As you can see, Arsene is a shepherd. His son is an apprentice cheese maker. Arsene's mother, and his grandfather were born of this fief."

"How many people live there?"

"Twenty-three adults. There are six families working for you. Phoebus and I spoke with everyone. There are eight small children and perhaps a few more on the way." Charles passed Quasimodo a parchment. "Everyone is listed here, as well as their occupations."

Quasimodo read the paper to himself. Charles stood as Pierre entered the room, locking the door behind him.

"Perfect timing." Charles waved Pierre in. "We should have a break before discussing taxes."

Pierre filled both mugs with clarea, the tea steaming. He poured additional honey into Charles' mug and stirred it before passing it to him. Charles sipped his tea and searched through the pages on his desk.

"As you know, the taxes for this year are paid." Charles waved his hand dismissively. "There is a description on how to calculate them somewhere..."

Charles shuffled through books and stray pages. Pierre grasped the second mug. As he stepped around the desk, his pocket caught on a drawer handle. Pierre stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of the desk. The clarea formed a graceful arc before splashing onto the polished floor. Pierre held the mug in his hand, some of the precious tea still inside.

"A mop, Pierre?"

"Of course, Monsieur." Pierre excused himself, the door thudding behind him.

Charles poured what was left in the kettle into the mug and gently pushed it across the table, toward Quasimodo. Pierre returned and mopped the polished floor. The sweet smell of cinnamon and honey filled the room.

"My cook makes and excellent clarea, Monsieur Fr... Quasimodo." Charles paused, waiting for Quasimodo to look up at him. "It's sweet, yet I promise that you've yet to have a better one."

Quasimodo took the mug and sipped the hot, sweet drink. His eyes grew wide at the taste.

"What is this?" Quasimodo looked into the mug.

"Alfred's secret recipe." Charles smiled. "I knew you'd enjoy it. Now... this is how taxes are calculated. What do you know of mathematics?"

* * *

The door cracked open, creaking. Fleur turned sharply. Pierre entered, bearing a bottle of ink and a scroll.

"Good afternoon, my Lady. I come bearing inspiration for your introduction to the world of literacy."

"Monsieur, I was expecting Madame Duval." Fleur folded her embroidery and placed it in her basket. She approached the table.

"Alas, it is only me." Pierre set down his ink with a flourish and began looking at the papers on the table. He held a page in his hand, staring at the marks.

"My Lady, your alphabet, it is..." Pierre paused. "It is excellent for someone who has never attended formal lessons."

"Is anything that I've done proper?" Fleur pouted. "You will be able to teach me, won't you?"

"Of course. Even a goat may learn to spell." Pierre shook his head. "Hold the quill like this. If you wish to write poetry, or draw lines and birds, that is fine. You should start by learning to write your own name."

Fleur looked to the door.

"Your heart yearns for romance, it is plain to see." Pierre lifted the scroll and offered it to Fleur. "May I introduce you to Monsieur Guillaume de Lorris and Monsieur Jean de Meun. Roman de la Rose."

Fleur opened the scroll, only to see lines of jumbled letters and words.

"It is a poem of love, Pierre?" Fleur bounded. "Please, read it to me."

"My Lady, it would be scandalous to do such a thing. However you will read it yourself, in time."

Fleur looked to the scroll, the bottle of ink and the worn quills on the table.

"We shall start with some of my own poems. From there, you will learn how to read this most exquisite work."

Fleur moved a stool to the table and dipped a quill in the ink. She held it to the page and printed the first few letters of the alphabet.

"Most lovely." Pierre nodded and wrote a few words on the page. "Are any of these familiar to you?"

"Apple." Fleur touched the page. "This one is 'love'."

She moved down the sheet, picking out words she knew. When reaching a word she didn't know, she struggled to sound it out.

"You know more than you let on, my Lady." Pierre laughed.

"Read me a love poem, Pierre." Fleur begged. Pierre opened a book, opening it to a stained and well-worn page.

"Thomas a Kempis, my Lady." Pierre read from the page. "It is called 'Love is a Mighty Power'. "

Fleur-de-Lys sat enchanted as Pierre read each phrase with colour and emotion. She clasped her hands at her chest, over her heart. She absorbed each word.

"That is so beautiful, Pierre." Fleur sat in silence for a few moments. "I don't even know what it means. I've not heard many of the words you read."

"A poet will read more than they write. A poet will live the art, become an artist." Pierre held out a scroll. "The life of an artist is filled with heartbreak and longing."

"That sounds dreadful." Fleur mused. "...yet terribly romantic."

* * *

"That should be the last of them." Father Lacroix closed the door to the storage room. Quasimodo and Dion stood behind him, sweating.

"Every candle in Paris must be in there." Dion wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his robes. "Surely everyone will be in the dark until after Easter."

Quasimodo allowed himself to smile, yet remained silent.

"Tomorrow afternoon, the food will begin arriving. Then, it's the tables." Father Lacroix gestured to Quasimodo. "We'll need you for those. They're stored in the Abbey."

Quasimodo nodded and turned toward his quarters. While passing through the nave, he noted an absence of Roma among the columns. Some sat in prayer, others chatted in groups. None were living here. Clopin must have secured a new home for them.

Once in his quarters, Quasimodo lay out his books and resumed reading what Charles had sent him. The page opened at a bright blue ribbon, a page discussing winnowing grain to improve weight. He remove the ribbon and turned back to the pages discussing payment of taxes.

As the None bells rang, Quasimodo closed the book. He walked through the tower, under the bells. He pulled his pottage from the fire, eating it with rolls and ale. Then, he shuffled through the crate of books gifted to him by Archdeacon Chevrier.

"Le Livre de la Cité des Dames." Quasimodo held the book in his hands, surprised at the title. He laughed. "British stories, cooking and now this?"

Quasimodo scanned a few pages, admiring the painted pictures of women writing, making books and going about their lives. After finishing his meal, he carried the book to his room. He opened the book to the first page an and began to read. These were the words of a woman, a strong woman. A woman like Esmeralda.

Hours passed, Quasimodo absorbed in every word and passage. The art held him to the story, the words urging him to read more. Soon, the sky dimmed. He lit a candle. Then, Vespers tolled overhead.

Quasimodo set the bright blue ribbon on the page, marking his place.

* * *

* Aloïse is the deceased wife of Charles and Fleur-de-Lys' mother. She's alive in the novel. I killed her for this story. :)


	10. January 31, 1482

Thursday, January 31st

Quasimodo leaned on the bridge, watching the river below. He felt a presence behind him. Turning, he saw a horse and cart had stopped so close, as to nearly touch his heels. A pretty girl sat in the driver's seat, her full attention on him. She wore a simple dress, her hair lay in a simple braid. She looked into his eyes, expressing no evidence of fear or repulsion.

"Come with me." She motioned for him to join her in the cart.

The cart was old, and had a hastily-repaired wheel.

"Is it safe?" He signed back to her, using the motions the monks had taught him. To his surprise, she signed back. Her lips remained sealed as she maintained her focus on him.

"You have nothing to fear, Quasimodo."

Quasimodo awoke suddenly, feeling the cold air surround him. The sky remained dark as he smoothed the quilts. No woman would ever approach him in such as manner. He laughed to himself while folding his woolen night dress. That laughter quickly faded to a frown as he lay his clothes neatly on the bed.

"No woman will ever want me."

He placed his hand on his left eyebrow, as if trying to wipe away that lump of flesh and bone. That lump that obstructed his vision, that spoiled any chance of him appearing even remotely normal.

What had she looked like? He struggled to imagine this strange girl while combing his hair. She could be anyone, yet was certainly no one. Even Esmeralda had never signed to him, and would hopefully never feel the need to.

He passed the red & purple tunic over his head, folding the long sleeves to his elbows. A light passed by the open doorway. A hand appeared.

"Good morning, Dion." Quasimodo spoke, hoping that Dion heard him.

The novice stepped in, his candle brightening the room. A silly grin lay across his youthful face. He watched as Quasimodo secured his belt and smoothed his tunic.

"Did you sleep well, Monsieur... Quasimodo?" Dion stuttered. "You're awake far too early."

"After two weeks, I could not wait to start the day." Quasimodo looked to his hands, they had softened. "There isn't long to wait."

"You're feeling up to the task, then." Dion nodded. "I don't suppose you want any help this morning?"

"I'll be fine on my own."

Quasimodo nodded and stepped out of his room. He climbed the short ladder, standing for a moment under the bells. A thin dusting of frost coated each bell, causing rainbows to sparkle where the first rays of light touched them. Quasimodo climbed the ladders. The air grew cooler as he ascended the belfry. He looked to the ropes, coloured strips of fabric had been tied to the ropes, marking them.

He paused for a moment, watching the rays of light cross over the distant hills. When the light reached the mark on the floor, Quasimodo stepped forward, grasping Gabrielle's rope in his hands. He heard the deep sound in his chest, and his ears. At the second toll sounded, he leapt to Pasquier's rope. As Gabrielle pealed a third time, the other bells began to sing, their perfect notes blanketing the city. Soon, Thibauld and Guillaume joined in.

Sweating and with sore arms, Quasimodo made one last jump toward Gabrielle's rope. A single loud peal ended the morning song.

Panting, Quasimodo looked up as his friends swayed to rest. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. His shoulders and arms ached, complaining at the sudden, intense activity. He folded his hands together, feeling the familiar burn of their ropes.

"Wasn't that a little overdone?" Dion commented as Quasimodo walked by.

"It was overdue." Quasimodo shrugged and continued to his quarters. He grasped the cloak from the wall and turned to leave.

"Where are you going now?" Dion raised his eyebrow.

"Morning mass."

"I shall join you, then." Dion turned. "Apparently today's meeting with Monsieur Gondelaurier is cancelled. He's apparently eaten something that disagreed with him."

* * *

Fleur stood on the balcony, watching the sunrise. She felt alive and fresh. The unusually elaborate Lauds only added to her excitement. She gathered her breakfast in the kitchen and walked to the parlour.

The kerchief was nearly completed. Fleur added a thin border of red and crimson, then set it on the table. As she examined her own needlework, she swore to herself that whenever she met him, wherever she met him, she would give him this token of her love. She folded the kerchief neatly, allowing the "F" to show prominently.

Dipping her quill in the ink, Fleur set the nib to the page. With a shaking hand she wrote her given name. Next to it, she drew a little image of her namesake. She smiled.

Between letters and words, Fleur dotted the page with images of doves and hearts.

She looked to the page and sighed. What would he look like? Such a beautiful voice would certainly be spoken by the kindest, most elegant man. She set down her quill and pulled the drawing from under another page. She added a few lines to his hair, forming into rich, wavy locks. She rubbed her finger over the eyes, lightening them. She made his lips thicker, as if ready to kiss her.

"When will you ask to see me?" Fleur touched the drawing on the lips. "I'm waiting for you."

Fleur stared at the picture for a few moments, then turned it face-down on the table. She set "Roman de la Rose" atop the inverted drawing and folded kerchief. She took the quill back into her hand and continued to draw words and letters. The parlour door opened.

"You are already an artist, my Lady." Pierre admired the drawing, the kerchief spilling onto the table unnoticed as he picked it up. "He appears... young. Who is he?"

"No one in particular." Fleur blushed.

"Very well, then." Pierre brought out a pamphlet with a flourish.

"What is this?"

"My own creation." Pierre beamed.

" _Beauty is the answer,_ " he read " _...for it is only beauty that will overpower all that is ugly and hidden in the shadows. Yet not all beauty shines, we talk of beauty within, while hiding away all but the superficial. We must learn to distinguish the two so that all that radiates love may be in the light where it belongs._ "

"That doesn't seem right." Fleur pouted.

"What do you mean, my Lady?" Pierre sat back on the chaise.

"Night turns to day, and day into night." Fleur picked up the page, struggling to pick out the words. "

"The night hides the elegant beauty of the rose."

"Yet the herb garden smells sweeter by moonlight."

"That is also true, my Lady." Pierre laughed. "Not all beauty shows on the surface. The plainest vessel may bear the sweetest wine."

Fleur paused for a moment

"Such lovely words." Fleur looked at the page. "Teach me to create such beauty with words."

"That, my Lady, is what I wished to hear."

* * *

Fleur stood in an ornate hall. The floor was marble, the walls decorated with expensive paintings. The room was bright and warm, much like the summer sun.

"Mademoiselle de Gondelaurier."

Monsieur Frollo's voice was hesitant. She listened as his footsteps approached. They were uneven at first. With each stride forward they became steady, like a heartbeat.

A tall, handsome man with flowing black hair stood before her. He wore deep purple leggings with a large, ornate codpiece. A heavily embroidered, multi-coloured doublet and red cape donned his upper body. Fleur approached exposing her shoulder to him, looking up into his sky-blue eyes. He gently cupped her hand, placing a kiss on the top of her wrist.

"Where have you been?" Fleur blushed.

"Right before you, every day." He reached up, brushing her cheek lightly with his thumb. "You haven't looked in the right place."

The man looked at his clothing, then to his own delicate and soft hand. He shook his head, his eyes sharing the disappointment expressed in his voice.

"You don't know me. This is not me." He looked into her eyes. "You know who I am. In your heart, Mademoiselle, you know. Why do you deny it? Why do you deny what is real?"

The man melted away, leaving her alone.

Fleur felt a chill, before finding herself in a cool, dark, drafty place. Wooden beams surrounded her, framing her in. His voice echoed, nearly metallic, in the large space. She looked about in the shadows, yet he was nowhere to be seen.

Fleur awoke in a cold sweat. A single bell tolled three times, the tone moving as a wave over the sleeping city. It was midnight. She stepped from her blankets and to the window. Moonlight blanketed all of Paris. Strong gusts of icy air howled outside her window, rattling the frame. Was Monsieur Frollo also looking out over Paris at this moment? He heart fluttered. He was. Somehow, she knew he was.

Rather than return to bed, Fleur remained at the window, looking into the square. In the moonlight, a single figure crossed the snow-dusted cobbles. She watched the figure disappeared down a narrow street, only to emerge a few streets over.

"You're a brave one, aren't you?" Fleur watched the figure, before growing chilled and returning to bed.


	11. January 32, 1482

Friday, February 1st

Quasimodo sounded the Vigil, then allowed the bells to rest. The night was bright, with a full moon, and bitterly cold. He stepped to the edge of the tower, looking over the city. To the North, he could see the distant hills as black shadows before a brilliant, sparkling sky. To the west, lay most of the island. Amber windows dotted the soft blue light that blanketed the city. At this hour, all of Paris was silent, to him and everyone else.

Looking to the scattered dots of candlelight, Quasimodo sighed. Who else was awake at this hour? Scholars? Other bell-ringers? He looked down into the empty streets. He grasped his cloak to his shoulders and left the tower.

The portal of St. Anne remained unbarred. Quasimodo carefully closed the door behind him, as not to cause alarm to anyone awake inside the cathedral. He turned, facing into the square. The snow-dusted cobbles appeared blue. Small eddies of snow glistened and sparkled before him. He stepped away from Notre Dame and into the square.

Quasimodo walked through the empty streets, his shoes creaking on the thin layer of snow. He folded his hands into the sleeves of his cloak, warming his fingers against his arms. As he walked each street, he noted the pictures and signs on each shop and continued to look back to Notre Dame to orient himself. There were shops selling paints and dyes, shops selling quills and quilted chairs. Paris was different when walking through it, with many of these treasures hidden from his regular view.

A gust of wind lifted his hood, flattening it over his hump. He drew his hands up in order to replace it, then paused. There was no one here. He stood for a moment, in the middle of a street, feeling the wind tousle his hair. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply. When he opened them, the street remained empty.

Quasimodo continued to walk the streets by moonlight, orienting himself in the mazes of streets without the distraction of others pointing or staring. Only when his legs began to ache did he return to the comfort of Notre Dame.

The bells would not ring again for a few hours. Quasimodo lay back in his bed, enjoying the softness. Would he ever grow accustomed to such comfort?

Esmeralda and Charles were right. Visiting the fief was imperative. How would he get there? How would he be treated? Was it true that they'd already heard of him and knew what to expect? Would the vassal, Arsene, continue to hold a grudge against him, or were Charles and Justice Moreau correct in that he would become agreeable to working with him? Would he have to admit his lack of hearing to the people living there? Or would they speak to him one at a time?

Quasimodo attempted to roll to his side. Finding this uncomfortable, he piled a few cushions so that he was sitting up slightly. He could breathe better this way. He looked to the fire, then turned his attention upward, to the red glow on the ceiling. He closed his eyelids.

What did she look like? The girl with the broken-wheeled cart? Truly only a dream, yet the sweetest dream to ever befall him. She had braided hair, and that was all he could remember of her appearance. He knew not the colour of her hair or eyes. Her hands. He could imagine her hands signing to him. They were worn, callused and possibly those of a worker. She'd signed him, smoothly.

 _"You have nothing to fear, Quasimodo."_

"I'll look for you." Quasimodo promised himself. "I don't know who you are, but I'll go out there and look for you."

* * *

"All of Paris will be there." Fleur-de-Lys bounded in her dressing room. "Virginie, I must look my best for him."

"Who is it you plan to meet, my Lady?"

"No one." Fleur quickly corrected herself and shrugged. "I could meet someone there. All of the most devout will attend, certainly every eligible bachelor."

"I see, my Lady." Virginie shook her head. "Will you wear your mother's jewels?"

"Of course." Fleur held a dress to her shoulders. "Is this too fancy, or does it make me look like a cow?"

"Wear the dress you love most, my Lady." Virginie commented. "You will need to tell me which one to fetch."

"The one with the gold trim, wide sleeves and Spanish lace." Fleur announced. "I feel as a princess when wearing it."

"It will be ready for tomorrow morning." Virginie nodded. "You will be the most beautiful woman there."

* * *

Fleur-de-Lys stepped into her father's office. As she closed the door behind her, she heard her father laugh.

"Why are you in here, my dear."

Fleur paused, her eyes scanning the desk.

"Paper, father." Fleur blurted. "I came to fetch some paper to write on. Also, I came for a book. To read. A book for me to read."

"Is that all, my darling?" Charles stood, filing through the few books and scrolls on his shelf. He drew a small volume and offered it to Fleur. "Is there anything else?"

"That, and to tell you how much I love you, father." Fleur bounded forward, into her father's arms, hugging him. She kissed him on the cheek, then stood, expectedly, before him.

"Go, Fleur. Attend the lessons that you requested."

"I will, father." Fleur turned.

"Fleur. You are forgetting something."

Fleur quickly turned, taking the paper and book from her father's outstretched hand. She was gone. Charles arranged the notes on his desk and prepared for his last meeting with Quasimodo. When the melody of the rebec reached his ears, he relaxed in his chair and waited.

The door opened, Quasimodo walking in unaccompanied. Charles rose to greet him. It was then that he noticed his daughter's scarf on the leather chair. Charles moved forward too late. Quasimodo picked the scarf from the chair and neatly hung it next to his cloak. Charles sighed.

"There is much to cover today, Monsieur... Quasimodo." Charles nodded. "Forgive me for not meeting you yesterday. I fear I ate something disagreeable. I trust you feel well?"

Quasimodo nodded.

"Mostly, this is housekeeping. Appointing book-keepers, delegating tasks and keeping peace on the fief."

"Are people unhappy?"

Pierre stepped in, bearing a tray of rolls and mugs of ale. He laid the refreshments on the table.

"They are unsettled, Quasimodo." Charles bounced his quill between his fingers. "Claude Frollo ran that place for close to twenty-five years. They knew what he wanted, what he expected. Many have never known any different. None of them know what your demands will be. To put it frankly, they are scared. Arsene has dictated a letter and wishes to meet with you as soon as possible."

"What do you mean?" Quasimodo leaned forward, his right eye squinting at Charles. Pierre spoke.

"Imagine you took orders from the same Archdeacon for twenty years. He wants the bells to toll a certain way, meals at a certain time and only certain foods. He's very strict, and does not allow anyone to eat bacon during Lent, even if they hide it in pastry." Charles nodded in agreement as Pierre spoke. "Then, one day, that Archdeacon is gone. Another one takes his place, yet does not show himself. No one knows what he wants, so they follow the old pattern, hoping that it's correct. This creates uncertainty, and fear. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Then let us begin."

* * *

"All of Paris will be there." Quasimodo paced through the bell-tower. "Everyone who was at the Feast of Fools, will be there."

Quasimodo stepped onto the transept, at the gallery of Chimeras. He looked down, onto the empty moonlit square.

" _No harm will come to you in Notre Dame._ " Father Lacroix's words had been clear. Yet, how could he be certain they were true?

"If one person decides I don't belong there, what will happen?" Quasimodo thought to himself, then looked to the chimera next to him. "You've said nothing in over two weeks. Why so silent after twenty years?"

Quasimodo laughed, shaking his head. He placed his hands on his forehead, forcing his callused fingers through his hair. He remained still, his elbows resting on the parapet. His breath escaping in ragged gasps.

"There is no way out of this."


	12. January 33, 1482

Saturday, February 2nd

Fleur elegantly folded the embroidered kerchief and placed it in her bosom. She would give it to him, as a token of her love.

The din of voices in Notre Dame was deafening. Fleur-de-Lys wandered away from her father, between the rows of candles. Somewhere, in this crowd, was her future husband. He was looking for her, too. Every few moments, Fleur grew still, closing her eyes and listening for him. Voices echoed onto voices, a crescendo of chatter and laughter.

"The meat is soggy." And old woman complained.

"Where did Father Paul take my son? He always takes my son!" An irate man shouted.

"Please, join us at the table. You will be fine." This was a woman's voice.

"This doesn't feel right. I don't belong here."

Fleur's heart fluttered at the sound of Monsieur Frollo's voice. It was soft, as always. Despite the ever increasing volume, his voice remained low. He was here, looking for her.

She continued to listen, to look about. His voice disappeared into the crowd.

Fleur closed her eyes every few moments, while wandering. While listening.

"Don't go near him, he'll cast a spell on you."

"With the price of butter these days, I doubt there will be any left for us common folk."

"He'd never hurt anyone, you old coot. You know that as well as anyone. Leave him be."

Quasimodo shook his head at the unrelenting whisper that filled the nave. A pulsating hiss of unintelligible words flooded over him. The cloaked shoulders of others blocked his vision. He forced his shoulders back, extending his neck as high as nature allowed, in an attempt to look over those surrounding him. His calves and hips complained at this change in posture. Smells filled the air, that of smoke, roasting meat and unwashed Parisians. Some people moved around him, careful not to knock the many candelabras. Others bumped into him without a thought.

Dutifully, Quasimodo replaced the candles surrounding the altar with fresh ones, nearly doubling the amount of light. The sculptures flashed and sparkled with the increased brightness. He stepped back, taking a moment to appreciate the altar while only an arm span away. Citizens stood on either side of him, their attention elsewhere. He looked up to the statue.

"Please let this day go smoothly." Quasimodo begged a silent request.

* * *

"Most of Paris is in attendance." Laughed Charles de Gondelaurier, Fleur-de-Lys in tow. He patted Phoebus on the shoulder. "Nephew. This must be your fiancé."

Esmeralda smiled. Charles extended his hand.

"Esmeralda, I presume. Truly a vision. Your friend, Monsieur Frollo. Where has he gone to."

"You are so formal, uncle." Phoebus shook his head. "He was near the altar a few moments ago. No doubt he'll be around shortly."

"Most excellent. I must admit, I had my doubts about him. He's a clever soul, exceeding my expectation. He'll do well for himself."

"Did you tell him that?" Esmeralda questioned. Charles paused, his jaw dropping slightly.

"Madame, I did not." Regret seeped into his voice. "Come, Fleur. We must find our seats."

Fleur-de-Lys turned toward the altar, only to find the nave crowded with commoners, Roma and clergy.

Fleur looked over her shoulder as she was led away. They seated themselves, taking their seats. A space remained at the end of the table, next to Esmeralda. Their drinks were filled and emptied and then filled again. Soon, platters of roast meat, stews, bread and crepes began arriving at the table.

Quasimodo approached the table, noting an empty chair next to his dearest friend. Esmeralda lifted her scarf from the seat, inviting him to join her and Phoebus. A plate of crepes and a goblet of ale waited for him. He set his basket of candles on the floor and joined the rest of Paris at the tables.

"Fleur, I'd like you to meet Quasimodo, the bell-ringer." Charles directed his daughter to Quasimodo. He offered a polite nod and smile to Fleur. He remained otherwise still. Fleur looked behind her, straining to see the altar.

Fleur-de-Lys looked to him, noting his red and purple tunic. He was hideous. She looked to her hands and pouted, then looked back to Quasimodo. She forced herself to look at him, her eyes beginning to itch as she did so. He appeared perfectly ugly and impossibly strong, yet at the same time, friendly enough. His short red hair was neatly combed, his eyes sparkling by the candlelight. If nothing else, he appeared kind. Terrifying, yet kind.

Charles de Gondelaurier ate at the great table, across from Esmeralda, Phoebus and Quasimodo. Fleur de Lys sneered at Phoebus, scowled at Esmeralda and stole fleeting, awkward glances at Quasimodo. She ate her crepes and drank the wine placed before her. She closed her eyes as the voices of those around her filled the air. A voice, that of Monsieur Frollo, caused a vision of a handsome, tall man with a strong jaw to appear in her mind. Her heart fluttered when his voice reached her ears, he was nearby. She opened her eyes, only to feel her stomach ache. The voice, that beautiful voice that she'd dreamed about. It flowed from the lips of the bell-ringer.

She looked into his eyes, catching his attention. Tears began to stream down her face.

Quasimodo looked to Fleur-de-Lys, his right eyebrow lifted slightly. Fleur turned away, dabbing her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. She sank into her seat, her elbows pulled snugly to her sides. She watched as Quasimodo, Monsieur Frollo, continued to converse with Phoebus, Esmeralda and her father. She pushed her plate away with a single finger and slunk further into her seat.

The meal soon ended. Quasimodo was the first to rise, taking his basket of candles and moving to the most dimly-lit area of the nave. Fleur watched as he limped into the crowd.

"Father, would you excuse me for a moment?"

Charles turned to Fleur, only to see that she'd already left.

Fleur-de-Lys pushed through the crowd, struggling to find Monsieur Frollo. When she found him, he was holding a candelabra in his large hands. She walked up to him, her hands folded to her chest.

"Monsieur Frollo." She stood behind him, waiting. He did not respond. She reached out with her right hand, her fingertips nearly brushing his tunic. He turned. Fleur sharply drew her hand back to her chest.

His eyes were wide. He dropped the lit candle, it's flame dying as it touched the floor.

Fleur pulled the kerchief from her bosom and held it out.

As he touched the kerchief, Fleur tilted her hat, shielding herself from his bewildered expression. She backed away, bumping into several Parisians, before turning. She trotted back to her father.

Quasimodo held the kerchief. It was soft, a fabric he'd never touched before. The perfume it carried was familiar. It was faint among the many other scents and odors filling the nave. Recent memories of a more concentrated version made him slightly nauseous.

He placed the kerchief in his pocket and picked the dropped candle from the floor. Lighting it with another candle, he resumed his duties.

* * *

Fleur arrived back in her room. She looked to the sketches of the voice, the handsome man with expressive eyes. She lifted her hand to the drawing, smearing the charcoal over its left eye, smudging it. Adding lines and smearing others, she altered his shape. Tears flowed from her trembling eyelids as she changed the man in her mind, to resemble the man she'd seen. She stepped back from the page, noting the smeared lines. His eyes, remarkably accurate eyes, stared at her. Those eyes mocked her.

Her hands were black. Reaching forward, she grasped the page with both hands. Tearing it from the table, she crumpled it. Charcoal dust spilled onto the floor and onto her dress. She tossed the drawing into the fire. Flames licked at the crumpled page, devouring the embodiment of her thoughts and dreams.

Anger flowed through her. How could he do such as thing, how could he be...

Fleur passed her hands over her face and through her hair. Between smudged fingers, she looked to the fire. The drawing was gone, consumed by the fire.

Monsieur Frollo, Quasimodo the bell-ringer, had done nothing to her. He had not lied. He'd never even said a word to her. He knew nothing of her and was only polite during their introduction.

"It was all in my head." Fleur looked into the fire, as the last folds of her drawing melted into ash.

Fleur lifted the white feather from her table and ran her blackened fingers over the vanes, smearing them. The end of the feather, that of a goose, was sliced at a sharp angle, slit and cut as a common quill. Aside from it's colour, it was no different than the quills Pierre had brought her.

Could she even face him again? Could she ever apologize to him? Fleur felt the softness of the feather. Her father had worked with him. Phoebus respected him. What had she done? He would think her a fool if he knew what she'd done.

Fleur buried her face in her hands and cried.

* * *

Well after sunset, Quasimodo lay awake on his bed, wrapped in plush covers on a soft mattress. A few pillows allowed him to rest on his back, comfortable. He pulled the thick patchwork quilt to his chin. Over his shoulders lay the grey wool blanket given to him by Brother Laurent. Both held a faint odor of incense.

He glanced toward the fire, wondering for a moment what sounds were made when sparks rose from the coals and scattered into the air. Esmeralda has mentioned the warm crackle of a fire, was this it? It was beautiful and soothing, even in silence. He lay still, enjoying the glow of the coals on his right cheek, imagining what a crackling log would sound like. A bit of moisture leaked from his eye, falling toward his ear. He did nothing to stop it.

Father Lacroix had been honest with him, no harm had come to him within Notre Dame. Children had pointed at him, as had a few Parisians. The Roma were only polite. He smiled in the dim light. The day had gone well, much more smoothly than he could have hoped for.

A vision of the young woman, Fleur-de-Lys, appeared in his mind. Phoebus' cousin, the daughter of Charles de Gondelaurier. She had looked at him so strangely, stealing awkward glances from beneath the down-turned brim of her hat. Was that embarrassment, or shame? Closing his eyes, her mannerisms repeated themselves. Never before had his eyes seen her, had they? Even by accident? He closed his eyes again. Everything about her seemed so familiar, except her pretty face. A scarf, quill and flattened pomander sprinkled with roses lay in the folds of her skirt, flashing with the candlelight as she moved, artfully arranged and terribly familiar.

Then, there was the kerchief. For what purpose had Fleur-de-Lys given it to him? Was it some twisted joke? Yet, the gift seem genuine, without malicious intent.

Quasimodo snugged his blankets around himself. He would have to ask Esmeralda in the morning.

* * *

End.


End file.
